


A Kid Who Just Won’t Let It Go

by rosewiththorns



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Challenges, Detroit Red Wings, Discipline, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kneeling, Kneeling Universe, M/M, Non-Sexual Submission, Puzzles, mentoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:03:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewiththorns/pseuds/rosewiththorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomas is tired of being on the fourth line, and Pavel reminds him of the importance of patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kid Who Just Won’t Let It Go

“I’m like a kid who just won’t let it go,  
twisting and turning the colors in rows.  
I’m so intent to find out what it is.  
This is my Rubik’s cube.  
I know I will figure it out.”—Rubik’s Cube, Athlete

A Kid Who Just Won’t Let It Go

“I’m on the fourth line again,” muttered Tomas, feeling like a scratched DVD, his voice muffled as he buried his face against the denim of Pavel’s jeans, while he knelt on knee caps that trembled like Jello with frustration at his hockey career, which seemed to be perpetually set in neutral or reverse, and never drive. Playing on a grinding line was almost as awful as being exiled to the press box to munch on popcorn as a healthy scratch or wrestling with an injury that kept you out of the lineup. Any way you sliced it, in all of these terrible situations, you couldn’t be the game-breaker for your team and have the kind of impact Tomas Jurco longed to have. “It’s like being on a fucking treadmill, Pav. No matter how hard I work to get ahead, I end up exactly where I started.” 

When he had been called up from Grand Rapids after doing all that he could to set fire to the AHL—sending up smoke signals to get him the hell out of the minors and back into the major leaguer where he was sure he could make it if he just got lucky for once—he had hoped that he would get a true shot at proving that he could be an offensive spark, but here he was, once again being stifled on the fourth line. 

In Grand Rapids, at least he had been given a chance to play a large role and shape games. Now he was stuck in a peculiar limbo, yearning to be able to make a significant contribution to games but unable to do so at a level higher than the AHL while also needing more than anything to be in the NHL even if he was nothing more than a grinder in the best league in the world. Pride made him restless for more playing time and anxious to get out of Grand Rapids forever, even if playing time was abundant there. 

As if he could read Tomas’ mind the way a fortune teller could tea leaves, Pavel, massaging the nape of his neck, murmured, “You have time, Jurcs.” 

“No, I don’t have time.” Shaking his head, Tomas jerked out of Pavel’s gentle grasp. “I can feel the clock ticking on my career.” 

“It nowhere near midnight yet. You got be patient.” Pavel stroked damp hair away from Tomas’ sweaty forehead, but the last thing Tomas desired to be at the moment was patient. Patience was not a virtue when your career was crumbling like an avalanche around your ears. 

“That’s easy for you to say.” His lips quirking into a sardonic smirk, Tomas found these wry words escaping his mouth before he could silence himself, because, after all, patience was what Pavel was renowned for—never rushing a maneuver, and always tricking the opposition into moving first. If you were fortunate enough to be Pavel Datsyuk, you could be patient, secure in the belief that your competitor would make a false move before you did, but Tomas didn’t have that luxury. He had to act swiftly and with the pressure—like a perpetual migraine—that he might be the one to screw up, thereby ruining his whole life. 

Continuing as if he had not heard Tomas’ remark, Pavel went on, tracing the shell of Tomas’ earlobe, “I not start in the NHL until I twenty-three, and I begin on third line, Jurcs.” 

“A third line with Brett Hull, Pav,” pointed out Tomas on a snort, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes. “There’s a difference between being a third liner on a team of future Hall of Famers, and not being able to consistently crack the lineup of a regular NHL roster.” 

“Of course we not have exact same situation.” Pavel gave Tomas’ shoulders a squeeze that felt like equal parts admonishment and reassurance. “Won’t find anyone with same story as you,  
Jurcs. Every story a little different.” 

“Good.” Tomas’ jaw tightened until it hurt. “I wouldn’t wish my life on my worst enemy.” 

He realized that he was sulking, and he wouldn’t have blamed Pavel for scolding since he sounded like a whiny toddler denied dessert, but Pavel merely observed, “You not seeing from right perspective. I show you better way look at your situation.” 

“How, Pav?” Dubiously, Tomas arched his eyebrows. 

“Think of your situation like it a Rubik’s cube.” With a lopsided grin, Pavel reached into the pocket of his hoodie and extracted a cube with each of its six faces comprised of smaller blocks of solid colors: white, red blue, orange, green, and yellow. As he spun the cube so that the colors scattered throughout it like dust in the wind, Pavel asked, “Ever used one of these, huh?” 

“Nope.” Tomas shook his head, still not seeing how his plight resembled a Rubik’s cube except in the sense that once his world had been ordered—with an apparently clear future before him—and now it was jumbled like the colors on the Rubik’s cube. 

“You twist all the rows and columns until all the sides are one color again,” explained Pavel, tucking the Rubik’s cube into Tomas’ hand. “It a challenge since sometimes you need make a turn that help you but it look like it set you back even farther instead of take you forward. You get angry, start to doubt yourself, and wonder if it impossible to solve this puzzle, but it possible and and you smart enough to do it. Just need stay calm and confident. Then you find solution even if take long time.” 

Fiddling with the Rubik’s cube, Tomas, not talking about the toy, declared as he lifted his chin, “I know I can figure it out.” 

“I do too, Jurcs.” Pavel ruffled his hair and then added, “Keep the Rubik’s cube. It motivate you, give you something to do with your hands when you annoyed or nervous, and focus your mind. I get it for you.” 

“Thanks. Were you also going to get me a pet rock?” Despite his sarcasm, Tomas was touched. Any gift from Pavel—even a geeky toy that had peaked in popularity before Tomas was even born—felt like a favor bestowed by a god. 

“You silly not to appreciate the charms of a pet rock.” Eyes gleaming, Pavel chuckled and tapped Tomas on the nose. “Pet rock have very steadying effect.”


End file.
